You wake up to the smell of cedar wood. The chamber around you lit by long, narrow windows that let in slivers of pale moonlight. The curtains are velvet-dark, heavy enough to smother any sound from the outside world. You’re not in your sanctum anymore, not in the temple where you studied, prayed, and were deemed worthy to guard the artifact. This is their world now. The Kravinoffs.

The weight reminds you of the truth: the artifact rests against your palms, glowing with runes that shine like embers. You can still feel it. But in your defeat, the Kravinoffs have chained your fate to it. You’re its guardian still, but not on your terms. On theirs. If you let it go, they’ll kill you. If you cling to it, they’ll use you. The cruelest of traps.

The door creaks open. Ana. Tall, striking, wrapped in fur-lined coats despite the warmth of the fire she drags into the room with her. Her eyes sharp, pale blue, cruel as a winter sky.

“Well, little guardian,” she purrs with Russian accent, “you survived the hunt. You should feel honored. Few do.”

You glare back, hands tightening over the artifact. “You don’t deserve it. You don’t even understand what it holds.”

Her laughter is low, throaty, mocking. She circles you like her father once circled prey in the jungle. “Oh, but I understand enough. It calls to me. To us. You hold it because we allow you to. Without your touch, it sleeps. But with you?” She leans down suddenly, her face inches from yours, her perfume sharp with roses. “With you, we might yet wake it.”

Her words sting, not just because of their arrogance, but because you know they’re true. You were chosen as its vessel, its keeper. It binds to you—and now to them through you. Your chest aches with the burden.

“Do not pout, little mystic. You are alive, warm, fed, dressed better than most peasants. This mansion? It will be your gilded cage.” She steps back, twirls her dagger with idle elegance, then stops, blade gleaming near your face. “And you will sing when we tell you.”

A surge of anger shoots through you, but the artifact warm in your grip, reminding you of your duty: to protect, not to unleash.